


Your Eyes Have Their Silence

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Hell, Light Angst, Mild Smut, Pre-Canon, Stars, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: After another attempted rebellion in Hell, Lucifer brings Maze to Earth to show her his works.





	Your Eyes Have Their Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hell Has No Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644718) by [ObliObla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla). 

> This is a rewrite of the first [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644718) I ever wrote, with the same prompt (from Lucifer prompts): Lucifer shows Maze the stars he created. Thanks to [Nia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii) for her beta help.
> 
> somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond  
any experience,your eyes have their silence:  
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me  
or which I cannot touch because they are too near
> 
> your slightest look easily will unclose me  
though I have closed myself as fingers  
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
> 
> or if your wish be to close me, I and  
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,  
as when the heart of this flower imagines  
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
> 
> nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals  
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture  
compels me with the color of its countries  
rendering death and forever with each breathing
> 
> (i do not know what it is about you that closes  
and opens;only something in me understands  
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands  
-e e cummings

Lucifer’s wings were still bloodied, shining in the meager light of flickering sulfur fires as Mazikeen followed him to his chambers. Her armor was stiff from the viscera of the battle, and her heart beat hard in her chest from the headiness of bloodlust and the sweetness of victory. These rebellions had become less and less common, but Hell was, essentially, chaos, and that inherent entropy tended to madness when left unchecked.

She had been the attendant of the king for a few centuries, ever since she’d been abandoned in the great wastes, ever since he pulled her from the muck and the grime, apparently impressed with the fierceness in her eyes and the blood she’d drawn when he’d come too close.

He had laughed, she remembered, when she scratched him, with manic glee and a flash of teeth as he withdrew. She growled, raising a heavy bone she’d scavenged from some large, dead thing half-buried in the swamp, and he danced out of the way.

“Do you speak, demon?” he asked.

She hissed in response, and he laughed again, but then he sobered, landing on a patch of dry land a few feet away, still wary of her makeshift weapon. She marveled at the strange protrusions from his back that had allowed him to fly above the endless sludge. They were unsoiled, unlike everything else in this place, glowing softly in the dimness.

He watched her, head tilting. “What did your kin call you before they left you for dead?”

She frowned, confused by the strange lack of command in his tone. She had rarely been _asked_ things, merely ordered or insulted, dismissed or ignored. But her mother’s voice, however cruel, still echoed in her mind—_names have power, daughter, and power must never be relinquished—_so she remained silent.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t so much as flinch when she feigned a lunge, merely chuckling.

She scowled. She wanted only to be left alone, so she demanded something of this odd creature filled with far too much light for the darkness of Hell. “What is _your_ name, then?”

He blinked and grinned. “I am called Lucifer.”

_Light bringer._ The meaning of it reverberated through her mind, and she considered him. “Mazikeen,” she said, lowering her weapon ever-so-slightly, though still guarded, cautious.

“_Mazikeen._” He seemed to savor the word. “You are strong and fierce. I would have you in my court.”

She frowned at him. “Who are you?”

He chuckled. “I am the lord of this place, of the great wastes and of the city I wrested from the chaos.” He took a step forward, and she snarled.

“Stay away from me!”

He raised his hands to pacify, though she only sneered. He sighed and kicked a rock into a stinking pool. “I would take you there.”

She glared.

“There is nothing here for you.”

The truth of his words ate at her spirit, and she felt herself relax despite herself. “I will not be your concubine,” she said sharply, “nor your slave.”

He nodded. “You are a warrior and you will have a warrior’s due. Will you come with me?” He held out his hand.

She studied him, but saw no deception. Still, she hesitated. Nothing good had ever come from trusting anyone. But he was right; there _was_ nothing here for her. Nothing but a short, brutal life and a hopefully quick death. And so she had taken his sure and steady hand.

Yet now he hesitated in the threshold of his bedchamber, wings held tight against his back, and she frowned at his show of weakness. But he shook himself, stiffened his spine, and entered, leaving her to shut the door behind her. He started to pull off his soaked and stinking leathers, and she joined him in discarding her own on the floor.

This was their ordinary post-battle ritual, but he wasn’t normally so quiet. She wondered at his strangeness, moving to the washbasin to wipe off the worst of the grime, turning to him with one of the softer cloths. He would grumble, and she would roll her eyes, but they both knew this was the only way to cleanse the blood from the feathers so they would again gleam with a light that continued to feel out of place in Hell.

She was the only demon allowed this, to behold divinity not as simply a weapon, but as an essential part of a being fallen so far from it. She scrubbed along the pinions roughly and efficiently, rucking up the vanes before haphazardly smoothing them out. She imagined it might hurt, not that she attempted to gentle her hand, but he didn’t complain, didn’t, in fact, make any sound at all. He seemed far from this room, from his palace, from this realm. His somberness began to concern her—the feeling settling unpleasantly in her chest—and, when the wings had been restored to their ordinary shine, she dropped the cloth to the floor and scraped her nails down his spine.

Perhaps in carnality they would both find themselves again.

He hissed, and his wings billowed out to either side. She ducked under one and trailed her fingertips over the line of his ribs, pinching at the skin and scraping over his nipples. He inhaled sharply and roughly cupped her breast. Her back arched, and she pushed harder against him, clawing down his chest and over his stomach. His fingers reached between her legs, pressing deeply into her, his thumb tight against her clit.

She growled and grabbed at his cock, but, at her touch, he withdrew. She moved with him, making to take him in hand again, but he gripped her wrist, hard, and pulled her hand away. But there was no anger in his gaze, and she found herself unbalanced, again.

“I have business on Earth,” he said brusquely, and she found her moorings again in his dismissal, but then he blinked and held out a hand. “Accompany me?”

It wasn’t a command, but she took his hand by habit. He pulled her back to him, and, for a bare moment, she pressed into him with renewed lust, but the attempt was lost in the rush of wind and feathers as they shifted dimensions. Something like nausea crept up her throat when he set her back on her feet.

She blinked at her surroundings; she’d never been on Earth before, and the brightness nearly blinded her. Something warm and coarse was beneath her feet, pressing up between her toes, and she yelped when its heat was replaced with sudden cold.

He steadied her, chuckling. “It’s only the sea, Mazikeen.”

She glared at the thing he’d called ‘sea’—it shone smoother than any fire, and was illuminated by a great ball of flame that made her eyes hurt to look upon it. So she turned away, back toward the relative darkness, back toward _him_, and her breath caught in her lungs.

The golden light illuminated the contours of his face, his body, his wings as he looked out over the vast waters, and there was something angelic to it. But even as she cursed herself for the blasphemy of her thoughts, he grinned—more beatific smile than snide smirk—and held out his hand.

“Lie with me,” he said, softly and without carnal intent.

And she took it, kneeling on the sand, pressing into its softness.

“Lie with me?” he had asked, a few decades after he’d found her, when she’d come to his chambers, as she often did, to proclaim the defeat of his enemies. Her armor was sodden with offal, and there was blood soaking into her hair and streaked across her face.

She dropped her spear and peeled off her leathers, letting them fall to the floor, watching him. She had noticed him looking at her, recently, and had wondered if he would ask, had wondered if she would say yes. It seemed that she had her answer, now.

He made no move to get up from his bed where she’d roused him from sleep, merely parting the furs around his waist, exposing his pale, deceptively fragile-looking flesh. She pressed a knee into the mattress and climbed between his parted legs. His fingers flexed against his thighs, but he waited, let her settle onto the bed. She bit her lip, and he made a quiet yearning sound. He sat up, slowly, and reached out, though not to touch. Instead, his hands stopped scant inches from her skin, caressing the air above it, close enough she could feel his heat, so different from the fires of Hell.

She could see his desire, laid bare, and it was for her. She closed the distance between them, pressing her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartrate quicken. He inhaled sharply and pressed his own hand over hers. With the other he reached out to brush some hair from her withered flesh.

At the touch she flinched, scowled, and drew her guise over herself. _How could she have forgotten? _Damn him and his strange gentleness. She nodded and made herself grin, crawling forward to press their lips together, but he caught at her wrist.

“No.”

She frowned. “No?”

“Keep the face,” he said roughly.

She blinked, letting it ripple back over her visage, and he growled at the sight, eyes flashing red with hellfire. He nipped at her lips, and she moaned, pushing at his chest, knocking him back into the furs. She loomed over him and smirked.

“Will you be a good angel?” she asked, feeling daring. Her words were almost seditious, but he only grinned, grabbing her hips and flipping them, holding himself over her.

“Will _you_ be a good demon?” He ran his tongue over the edge of her rotting cheek and left a bite on her chin.

She grabbed his cock and lined him up with her, hooking her calves against his thighs to pull him flush, impatient with his teasing. “No,” she said haughtily. He surged forward, and she keened.

He chuckled. “Good.”

And words were lost in the roll and thrust.

The waves rolled over the sand as she lay next to him, watching what he called the sun disappear beneath the waves. He had not taken her roughly on this quiet little beach as she’d expected, as she might have desired. Nor had he made any attempt to complete his supposed ‘business’. He seemed content to rest, wrists crossed behind his head, and simply look at this world—far too bright and colorful and silent for her liking.

She missed the din of battle and the screams of the damned, echoing from the palace walls. Missed the smoke and brimstone wafting over endless mountains. Missed the tangs of blood and sex in her mouth. Missed the darkness and the flickering flames that cut through it.

When they had lain so long her skin itched with impatience, she reached out for him again, for the soft flesh of his thighs that was now so very familiar, for the short hair between his legs and the heat that resided there. But, without a word, without even looking at her, he caught her wrist and dropped it to the sand.

She growled, half-angrily, half-playfully, and lunged for him, trying to get his blood up, to draw any kind of reaction at all. She didn’t understand the stillness of this place, didn’t understand the solemnity in his expression—what she didn’t understand, she feared, and what she feared, she found anger in her heart for.

But he wouldn’t fuck, wouldn’t fight, only pressed her back into the ignoble earth. “Just wait, Mazikeen,” he said sharply.

With his command, she felt more stable. She would wait if it was demanded of her. She knew what her purpose was, again, and she would fulfill it.

She had known her purpose, before, even as darkness had eaten at the edge of her vision, as blood—far too much blood—had poured from the wounds on her chest, on her arms. She coughed, painting her lips red.

“Leave me!” She had never commanded him before, wouldn’t have dared, but she did so now. She had nothing left to lose, after all. “I am already dead. Let Hell take me.”

“No,” he grunted, yanking her up from the ground, running over uneven terrain as he dodged the artillery of the enemy. They had been ambushed, had only expected a small force, not the full power of Asmodeus’s loyalists, intent on capturing their king and binding him in adamant.

He cursed as a demon dug its claws into his shoulder, nearly dropping her as he ran it through with his spear. It screeched, and he kicked it away, tightening his grip on her, diving under a lava spray. He leapt into the air and manifested his wings. Their light cut through the haze, and she blinked herself back to something like consciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, wings beating steadily, ducking under the scrambling claws of a great beast. There was fear in his voice, something she had never heard before, and it pained her more than the injuries had. He caught a draft, and the rest of his words were lost in the rush of wind, or perhaps in the fog of her agony.

He alit on a cliff, carrying her into a craggy cave carved into the sheer rock face. He laid her on the ground and brushed hair from her face, but she could no longer feel his touch. He removed his leather vest, stiffened with blood—his, hers, and innumerable others’—and pulled off his tunic. He started tearing it into strips.

She growled with all the energy she had left. “You should have let me die.”

“Yes, well…” He wrapped the cloth tightly around her wounds, tongue between his teeth in concentration, making her hiss and kick out at him. He caught her booted foot in his free hand and dropped it to the stone. “Might need you to save me again.”

She scowled, but then her body seized, and she coughed again, the force arching her back as she sprayed blood over his face. She wheezed—a lung must have collapsed—and snarled. “These dressings, your _care_”—she spat the word, tasting bile—“it’s meaningless. I was dead when that bastard ran me through.” Her ribs shifted violently beneath her skin and nausea rose; she pressed it down, fixing her rapidly clouding gaze on him.

“No_,_” he said again, fingers splayed against her torso, checking the extent of the injuries. “_No_, I won’t let you.”

She didn’t have the breath to argue, so she settled, instead, for glaring at him.

He finally realized what she’d been telling him the whole time, falling to kneel next to her.

She sneered as if to say, _See, the void has already claimed me. There’s nothing you can do._

A strange chill crept up her limbs and across her chest, and she shivered, wracked by fresh pain, harsher than the others, as if cruel, uncaring fingers were clawing at her heart, at the dregs of her spirit, buried beneath her fractured ribs.

“No!” he shouted again, uselessly, as a wave of darkness overtook her, and she drifted into the stillness of the grave, welcomed by pale, unfeeling arms. They wrapped around her, smothering her, drawing her breath from its secret place so deep inside, stealing away the heat in her blood.

But the darkness was shattered by a light brighter than any she’d ever seen, piercing her eyes, pinning her very spirit to a sphere of pulsing refulgence. And when she finally pried her heavy eyelids open, the pain not gone but dulled to a bearable throb, she watched as the afterglow faded, and a dulled, bloodied feather fell slowly to the ground.

And as memories faded yet again, the cruel, golden glory of a world she didn’t belong to slowly fell, and night arrived. She had feared, while she’d lain, uncertain, that darkness never came to this place. But this was her time now, it was _their_ time, and surely whatever it was they were waiting for would come. Surely this strange serenity would be broken in fire and in blood, in the sweetest of violence—the kind meted out by hands alone, so close to the enemy their blood’s heat would warm and strengthen.

But none came, only a blue softness so different from the jagged brilliance and boundless tenebrae of Hell. She thought to rise again, despite her orders, but then the skies parted, and she saw the heavens’ purer light.

She shut her eyes instinctively against such resplendence—to behold the divine was anathema to a demon, after all; celestial splendor was little but poison. But the curiosity and bravery that had led her to take his hand all those centuries ago, that had raised her up from an abandoned child to the confidant of the king thrummed through her veins, and she forced herself to look.

And they were…_beautiful_. Like sparks suspended in a void, their refulgence twitched as a living thing in tiny pinpricks of shimmering light. A voice in the back of her mind shouted to turn away, that such fascination—_devotion_, even—to something crafted by the Adversary was tantamount to treason. But their grandeur stole her breath, and her gaze was fixed inexorably on their shine.

“Never fear,” he said almost tenderly, and reassurance battled with bald fear at his terrifyingly gentle tone. She had never heard him like this, not when they’d met, not when they’d found each other for the first time, in the darkness; not even when she was broken and bloodied had he spoken so softly.

“What…are they?” The words slipped from her tongue without her permission, and she cursed them, but he merely hummed.

“They are called stars,” he said, “and they are mine.”

And she remembered, suddenly, something Barbas, the leader of the most recent revolt, had said, spitting fire as he was made to kneel. “You bring nothing so grand as _light_, light bringer_._ You bring only destruction and ruin.”

And Lucifer had grinned, though there was pain in his eyes as he replied. “Yes,” he hissed. “I am the bringer of darkness, and _I_ am the bringer of your doom.”

Mazikeen rejoiced in the blood on her hands when she severed Barbas’s head from his body, but Lucifer had not joined her in revelry, had only returned to his chambers, had taken her here, had taken her to see the light he _had_ brought.

And it was more brilliant than anything wrought in Hell, than anything else, she instinctively knew, in all of Creation. Her eyes stung with something wholly unfamiliar, as if blood were painted across them. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, but the pain remained. The light softened with the blurring of her vision, and she shuddered.

She couldn’t look away, but she felt he was waiting for her to speak. She exhaled slowly. “What are they made from?”

“Fire, collected in spheres to burn in the endlessness of space, each larger than the entire realm of Hell,” he said, still sounding strangely far away. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly hadn’t found it. He sighed and rearranged his limbs, stretching out on the sand. “He said, ‘Let there be light,’ and I drew the flames from nothingness.”

He did not speak to her like this, not with such familiarity, nor with such aching tenderness. These were words, she knew, she shouldn’t be allowed. She tightened her hands into fists and pressed her nails into her palm, letting the pain calm her, but it failed to lessen the ache behind her eyes.

He made a noise, then, a soft note of disquiet, and she turned to him by instinct. He was gazing up at the stars he’d made, dark eyes shining with their light and with the edge of wetness, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

Emotions swept over her she didn’t understand, and, as always when such things happened, she buried them with rage. But her anger had no focus, and this place was far too still to hold its weight. He must have heard her increasingly labored breathing, as he looked over at her and froze.

They stared at each other for a moment both endless and ephemeral, before he shook his head, rising, turning away from the stars, away from their light, looking down, as he always did, into the darkness. And there, in the boundless night they found themselves in, that they’d _always_ find themselves in, he leaned down to offer her his hand.

And she took it.


End file.
